"Inspector wants you to talk to you," he said.
"Okay," she said.
"You blowing him or what?" Martha asked.
"Stick it," Eileen said.
But as she walked away, she could hear Martha and the other trainees whispering. It didn't bother her anymore. Cops had been whispering behind her back ever since the rape. Whispering cops were more dangerous than The Preacher and his bullhorn.
The crowd was silent now, waiting for the next technical effect, this here movie was beginning to sag a little, ho-hum.
Even The Preacher seemed bored. He kept rattling his gold chains and scowling.
Brady and all the brass looked extremely solemn.
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"Hello, Burke," he said.
"Sir."
"Feel like working?" he asked, and smiled.
"No, sir," Eileen said.
The smile dropped from his mouth.
"Why not?" he said.
"Personal matter, sir."
"Are you a goddamn police officer, or what are you?" Brady said, flaring.
"Steve Carella's a personal friend," she said. "I know him . . ."
"What the hell. . .?"
"... I know his wife, I know his . . ."
"What the hell has that got to . . .?"
"I'm afraid I'll screw up, sir. If those men get away . . ."
"Inspector?"
They all turned.
Carella and Wade were standing there.
"Sir," Carella said, "we have an idea."
The crowd had begun chanting, "Do the hook-er, do the hook-er, do the hook-er," breaking the word in two, "Do the hook-er, do the hook-er, do the hook-er," urging the two men trapped in that house to break Dolly in half the way they'd broken the word, "Do the hook-er, do the hook-er, do the hook-er."
If Dolly heard what the crowd was chanting, she showed no sign of it. She sat in the window Uke some pale and distant Lily Maid of Astolat, waiting for a knight to come carry her away. There were no knights out here tonight, there were no blue centurions, either. There was only a group of trained policemen hoping that their organization, discipline, teamwork - and above all patience - would resolve the situation before somebody inside that house exploded.
The two men in there were criminals, and in Brady's experience criminal takers were easier to handle than either political terrorists or psychotics. Criminals understood the art
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of the deal; their entire lives were premised on trade-offs. Criminals knew that if you said you couldn't trade for weapons, you meant it. If the taker had a .45 in there, for example, he knew you weren't going to trade him an MP-83 for one of the hostages. And if you told him you'd never let him have another hostage, he knew you meant that, too. If he said, for example, he wouldn't hurt anybody if only you'd send somebody in to cook his meals or wash his clothes, he knew you wouldn't do that. There was a bottom line, and he knew exactly what it was, and he knew he'd look stupid or unprofessional if he tried to trade beyond that line. A criminal could even understand why his request for beer or wine or whiskey would be refused; he knew as well as you did that this was a dangerous situation here, and alcohol never made a bad situation better. A criminal understood all this.
And probably, somewhere deep inside, he also knew this wasn't going to end on a desert island with native girls playing ukeleles and stringing flowers in his hair. He knew this was going to end with him either dead or apprehended. Those were the only two choices open to him. Deep down, he knew this. So the longer a negotiation dragged on, the better the chances were that a criminal's common sense would eventually prevail. Make the deal, go back to the joint, it was better than being carried out in a body bag. But the situation here was volatile, and Brady had no real conviction that the men inside there would ever be ready to talk sense. The best he was hoping for was that Eileen would be able to make a little more progress than any of the other negotiators had.
"Dolly?"
Blank stare, looking out at the lights as if hypnotized by them, the chanting wafting on the night air from across the street, "Do the hook-er, do the hook-er, do the hook-er," urging men who needed no urging at all.
"My name is Eileen Burke, I'm a Police Department negotiator," she said.
No answer.
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"Dolly? Could you please tell Mr Whittaker I'd like to talk to him?"
"He don't wanna," Dolly said.
"Yes, but that was when the other negotiator was here. Tell him there's a new ..."
"He still don't wanna."
"If you could please tell him ..."
"Tell me yourself."
Looming in the window again. Tall and glowering, the white T-shirt stained with sweat, the AK-47 in his hands.
"Mr Whittaker," she said, "I'm Eileen Burke, a Police De . . ."
"The fuck you want, Burke?"
"You were talking earlier about a helicopter ..."
"Tha's right. Stan' up an' lemmee see you. Can't see nothin' but the top of your head and your eyes."
"You know I can't do that, Mr Whittaker."
"How come I know that, huh?"
"Well, you've been shooting at anything that moves out here ..."
"You got somebody trainin' in on me?" he asked, and suddenly ducked behind the window frame.
On the walkie-talkie to Brady, a sharpshooter in position said, "Lost him."
"You wanna talk some more," Whittaker said, "you come up here on the porch, stan' here front of the winnder."
"Maybe later," she said.
'"Cause I ain't givin' nobody a clear shot at me, tha's for sure."
"Nobody's going to hurt you, I can promise you that," Eileen said.
"You can promise me shit, Red."
"I don't like being called Red," she said.
"Tough shit what you like or don't like."
She wondered if she'd made a mistake. She decided to pursue it. At least they were talking. At least there was the beginning of a dialogue.
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"When I was a kid, everybody called me Red," she said.
He said nothing. Face half-hidden behind the window frame. Dolly sitting there all eyes and all ears, this was the first interesting story she'd heard all night long.
"One day, I cut off all my hair and went to school that way . . ."
"Oh Jeez!" Dolly said, and brought her hand to her mouth.
"Told the kids to call me Baldy," Eileen said, "told them I preferred that to Red."
Behind the window frame, she could hear Whittaker chuckling. The story was a true one, she hadn't made it up. Cut off all her goddamn red hair, wrapped it in newspaper, her mother was shocked, Eileen, what have you done?
"Cut off all my hair," she said now, just as she'd said all those years ago.
"You must've looked somethin'," Dolly said.
"I just didn't like being called Red," she said reasonably.
"Cut off all your hair, wow."
"Cut it all off."
"Boy oh boy," Dolly said.
Whittaker still hadn't said anything. She figured she'd lost him. Got a few chuckles from him, and then it was right back to business.
"So whut you like bein' called?" he asked suddenly, surprising her.
"Eileen," she said, "how about you? What shall I call you?"
"You can call me a chopper," he said, and burst out laughing.
Good, he'd made his own joke. Variation on the old "You can call me a taxi" line, but at least he hadn't said "You can call me anything you like so long as you don't call me late for dinner." And they were back to the chopper again. Good. Trade-off time. Maybe.